As he stood in the shower, lukewarm water running down his face
and blocking his ears, he realized he didn’t know a goddamn thing.
Seriously. Not a goddamn thing, he thought.
What he knew - or thought he knew - felt feeble and and untested.
Information accrued from a wash of random stimuli - like pond scum that gathers
along the banks of a rushing river. He knew fragments of parts of things people
thought they had once heard from some guy in a bar somewhere a few years back.
He couldn’t even remember if he’d already washed his armpits or
not. He lifted his arm and sniffed.
Matt
Loughlin
Occultation and Other
Stories
Laird Barron